


Sealed with a Kiss

by Doodleflip



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fluff, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:38:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doodleflip/pseuds/Doodleflip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fluffiest fluff that ever fluffed. In which, in a surprising break from tradition, Jaime gets embarrassed and Brienne makes the first move. Namedays are involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sealed with a Kiss

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Запечатано поцелуем.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2274006) by [babyx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyx/pseuds/babyx)



“Damn it to all seven bloody buggering hells!”

Jaime hurled his knife across the room where it thunked, quivering, into the wall.

It was ridiculous anyway. Absolutely farcical. Here he was, the bloody Kingslayer, the terror of the Westerlands, being defeated by a task the thickest child could have managed. He shoved his chair back so hard it hit the floor and swiped his golden hand through the paper that cluttered his desk, scattering it into the air. It didn’t make him feel any better. So he stalked out the door and beat poor harmless Pod to a pulp, instead.

…

It all started with a memory.

When he was a child, their mother had wrapped his and Cersei’s nameday gifts in coloured paper, tied up with silk ribbons. Red with gold for him, and gold with red for Cersei. “To make them as pretty as my pretty babes,” she always said, planting a kiss on each shining blond head, but Jaime thought it was because once, when they were younger still, Cersei had claimed his toy sword for her own and refused to give it back even when he threw her bright new doll in a pile of horse manure.

But the reason hadn’t mattered, not really. What mattered was that the paper was their mother’s love, the ribbons hours of her precious time. She never let a servant do it for her, even though any of her ladies would gladly have obliged. Their Lord father paid for the presents, but it was their mother who really gave them.

He had mentioned those early presents in front of Tyrion once, quite by accident, and his brother had cried for two whole days. No one had ever loved Tyrion enough to do that for him and Jaime felt horribly guilty for making it all so obvious. So that year on he stole a green ribbon from Cersei’s bedside and ripped a page out of the biggest book he could find in the library, and tied the whole lot as best he could around the little wooden lion he’d bought from a market stall in Lannisport. Tyrion had been thrilled, and years later still joked that he’d never have known what a shadowcat was if Jaime hadn’t taken it upon himself to maim a 300-year-old encyclopedia. His father had beaten him personally for that, and he hadn’t been able to sit down for a fortnight, but it had been worth it nonetheless.

…

Brienne had never had a present like that either, or at least he guessed she hadn’t. But when she’d said in an idle moment that she never had a mother to buy dresses for her – never had a mother to do anything for her – he’d suddenly thought of Tyrion. And the idea had taken root and now here he was, the day before her nameday, discovering just how bloody difficult it was to parcel up a present with only one good hand.

He shouldn’t be giving her a present at all, of course. It was utterly inappropriate. She was the Lady of Tarth and he the mere master-at-arms, disgraced and disowned from every shred of importance he’d ever possessed. He’d been a brother of queens once, (a father of kings), but those days were long gone. In a way he was glad, but in another it burned to exist on the sufferance of another. Brienne’s mercy was the only thing that stood between him and the streets, and he knew it.

She didn’t see it like that, of course. To her, he was still her social superior and she didn’t think anything of putting him beside her at the top table or seeking his advice on household matters. He’d been on Tarth a full year but the whispers still hadn’t stopped. He doubted they ever would. He was a decent master at arms, at least, but with so few in need of teaching his time was mostly unfilled. There were days he would have killed for a yard full of snot-nosed brats, no matter how useless, just to take his mind off his own uselessness. And yet he was grateful, more grateful than he really knew how to tell her.

Which brought him back to the present again. Choosing it had been difficult enough. So many gifts were open to awkward misinterpretation, and the island offered little choice in any case. Eventually he had shamefacedly persuaded the smith, who disliked him (didn’t everyone?) to forge a slim new dagger. He had no jewels for the hilt but melting down an old brooch of his from Casterly Rock provided just enough gold to mold a pommel in the shape of the Tarth arms.

The paper and ribbon had been more troublesome again. After several failed raids on the seamstress’ sewing basket, which had ended with her threatening to tell her lady he was after women’s items, he had found a dusty blue thing in the back of the stables that might once have adorned the mane of some long-dead horse. And tempting as it had been to resort to his childish methods, he instead told the steward he wished to write a letter to his brother and could he possibly have a sheet or two of writing paper. They were plain parchment, and watermarked with the Tarth shield, but they would have to suffice.

But it would all be for nothing if he couldn’t manage to wrap the damn thing.

…

“What’s this?” Brienne sounded confused. He didn’t blame her. The crumpled bundle in front of her hardly looked inviting. The point of the dagger had torn through at one end and the ribbon was tied in less of a bow and more of an awkward knot. But it was wrapped, at least.

Sort of.

“It’s a present,” he said, thinking that he’d scarcely felt less suave and Lannister-ish since he’d tried and failed to kiss a kitchen girl at the age of nine. She had slapped him, but that had paled in comparison to Cersei’s reaction. Better not to think about that. “For your nameday.”

“But – “ Brienne turned those huge blue eyes on him, all bewildered innocence. “You didn’t have to get me a present! I never gave you anything for yours.”

“You don’t know when mine is,” he pointed out. “I never told you.”

“Oh. Yes. But… but that isn’t the point, Jaime. You still didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

“And what’s all this?” She asked, indicating the wrapping that wasn’t. “I mean it’s lovely, but I’m not sure I –“

“It’s not lovely,” he broke in. “And it was a stupid idea. Just a passing thought, really. But my mother used to do that, you see, when we were children. To show you put care into a present, not just money, I suppose. And I thought, well. I thought that seeing as you never knew your mother, maybe no one had ever done that for you. And maybe someone should.”

“Oh, Jaime.” She was looking at him again, with those big eyes, a smile dawning slowly across her broad face as she understood. “What a lovely thought! Thank you! And you’re right.” She blushed, glancing down at her feet. “No one’s ever done anything like that for me before.”

“You haven’t even opened it yet,” he remarked, half laughing. Trying to deflect the hot glare of her earnest gratitude. His cheeks were reddening, he could feel it, and he never blushed.

“Oh!” She was startled. “Of course.” How stupid of me. She didn’t say it, but he still heard it and it made him feel guilty. Clearly he was a bad person, perhaps even worse than he’d previously realised.

She didn’t say anything when the dagger spilled into her palm, just stared at it with her mouth slightly open and her eyes wide, the silence stretching out into endlessness.

“I don’t know if it will suit,” he said – just to say something, to say anything - “and don’t feel you have to use it if you don’t like it. I don’t even know if you use a dagger.” He was laughing again, that awful forced laugh. With an effort, he stopped himself. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

“It’s perfect,” she whispered, still staring at it. “Just lovely.”

But then she raised her head and turned her gaze on him again, that beautiful deep sea gaze.

“And you don’t need to thank me for anything, Jaime.”

And then suddenly, hesitantly, somehow she was closer than he’d realised, and somehow she was kissing him. Her lips were chaste and uncertain but her eyes were closed and they were so close in height she hadn’t even had to stand on tiptoe. He was shocked into immobility, eyes still open and blinking in surprise, and then she pulled back and just like that it was over, the spell broken. But then he laughed, a real laugh this time, and knotted the fingers of his good hand in her hair and kissed her properly, golden hand tight on the small of her back and the smell of her, the weight of her, the taste of her was everywhere.

And when at last they broke apart and she looked at him, breath coming in gasps and eyes sparkling, she didn’t let him go straight away.

“The dagger was beautiful,” she whispered, “but I think the wrapping was even better.”


End file.
